Stuck on You
by Channel D
Summary: Gibbs & his team have lost a prized possession. Can they recover from the trauma? Can a dogooding nonhuman creature help? Will Tim be forever super glued to the floor? Nonsense written for the NFA Crack!Fic Theater of the Absurd and Beyond Challenge.


**Stuck On You**

By ChannelD

Written for the NFA **CRACK****!FIC****: Theatre of the Absurd & Beyond **Challenge

Rated: T

_**Warning**_: A few inconsequential jokes from season five episodes; no significant spoilers

- - - - -

Night came early in these dark days of mid-October. Night, greedy thing that it was, came rudely early and shoved Day out the door, locking the door behind with a hearty chortle over Day's protests.

But this is not a story about Night. Instead, it is about the Something-Or-Other (SOO, for short), a most hideous beastie, that, on one already-dark late afternoon in Washington, oozed out of the Anacostia River. It was a night when the fog was rising quickly in the low, damp areas, like a Washington politician fleeing from constituents after an exposé. Coming out of the water with some effort, across the grass of the little park the SOO went, undulating, ignoring the little blobs of it that broke off when encountering an annoyingly sharp stick or other pointy object. It had purpose, it had a method, it had a faintly fishy odor.

_Purpose…_Up to a brick building it slithered, its whitish-grayish, undefined form reflecting the street lights. The SOO hurled itself at the door, but the door did not yield. The gap at the bottom of the door was not sufficient to permit passage without a heaping of hurt. Reluctantly, it extended a bit of itself, creating a blob, which thn became a pseudopod. It rapped on the door; once, twice, then in a _shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits_ staccato.

"Yes sir, hold on," came a voice from the other side. The door was opened by a Marine wearing camouflage (as if anyone could spot him on this dark, dark afternoon). "Yes, uh, sir? Ma'am?" The Marine was trained to always be courteous, no matter who he encountered, even if the _who_ was more like a…_what_.

The SOO retracted the pseudopod, and when it extended it again, it held up a piece of paper. The Marine studied the paper. "Oh, no, sir, uh, ma'am, uh…you've got the wrong place. This is Building 11. Building number 111 is around the corner, on Sicard Street."

In a "voice" with no consonants, the SOO uttered something that sounded like _thank_ _you_, and flowed off as the Marine closed his building's door against the dark. Its throat hurt. It would not try human speech again.

The SOO drifted around the corner. _Building 111_. Yes, there its mission lay. _The United States Naval Criminal Investigative Service._ It wondered why its subjects always had such long names. _Oh, well; chaos now; reflection later. Here we…or am I an __'I'?...__go…_

- - - - -

"I've had just about enough of this foolishness," the Director said to the assembled agents in the squad room. "Like these…"

They gasped as she rolled out a cart bearing a chained trio of industrial-sized drums; drums which sounded disturbingly… _hollow_. The labels were worn by the weevils of time, and the sometimes frantic (though understandable) desire to inflict something torturous on their co-workers on short notice, but they could still be read. The label on each drum was different:

**Super glue**:_ Industrial Strength_

**Super glue**_: For Those Who Believe 'Industrial Strength' is for __Wusses_

**Super glue**: _For Sensitive Skin. New! Refreshing Apple-Cinnamon __Fragrence_

"Too many pranks, too much horsing around on government time. There will be some changes around here. As a start, I have _thrown out_ the entire supply of super glue. I don't know _why_ we had it in the first place!"

"Because it's fun—" Tony saved himself by reversing his tongue at the last moment. "—fundamentally inappropriate in a serious-minded agency like ours. I'll bet the, uh…"

"The CIA," Tim said, helpfully. Pick up the prized, hard-to-find NCIS edition of _Mad __Libs_, the fill-in-the-blank comedy skit book, available almost nowhere. In it, when asked to name a _cretinous__ agency,_ the CIA was the top choice.among NCIS agents everywhere.

"Yeah, the CIA must have snuck them in here. When we weren't looking."

"When you weren't looking?!" Jen said, incredulous. "You're investigators! You're supposed to be _observant_! The bottom line is, I have had these barrels emptied. We can reuse them for something else. Ziva, you're thin. Next time we send you on a long-distance assignment, instead of buying you a plane ticket, we'll ship you."

Ziva grimaced; even more so when Tony smirked. _He__ could fit in one of these barrels,_ she thought. _I'd just have to carve him finely enough. But __could I really do that? H__e's __too__ cute__ to carve__…_

The agents winced as one. _No more super glue??!!_ they thought

"No more super glue!" the Director said firmly.

_None??!!_

"None! Now I believe you all have work to do…" With that, she turned on her heel, swung the drum-cart smartly, and left; the cart playing a merry jingle as she rolled it along.

- - - - -

The SOO slithered into the NCIS building; so low to the ground and the gray carpet that the security guard didn't notice it.

It was empathic, it was a people-person, it was just plain bored and dateless on this Friday night. _Where is there the greatest need…?_ It lifted what might have been its head, if only it had one, two inches off the floor, and turned it in all directions, sensing. _Where is there the greatest need…?_

_Aha. __The second floor.__ As I feared, they have lost something dear to them, and they are bereft…_

Stairs beckoned ahead, but the SOO took the elevator. It stretched on its toes flippers trainers er…well, it _stretched_, and let's leave it at that. With great effort, since it had little mass, it gathered its protoplasm-like form into a pencil shape and pushed hard on the worn button marked **2**. When the elevator dinged, it oozed out, making itself as thin as possible to make it harder to spot as it meandered across the carpet. _Be glad! I am here to restore good cheer!_ it thought to the agents on duty.

- - - - -

They sensed, rather than felt, that something was wrong. The first clue came when Tim, who had been scuttling across the floor like a beetle, disconnecting and reconnecting computer cables, knelt at one nasty knot of cables that a passing group of Navy officers had stopped to admire and salute., The SOO was just flowing by silently, invisibly. _Nice __tush_it thought at Tim. _Definitely a 5!_ With a layer so thin it couldn't even be felt, it gave Tim a pat.

The knot undone, and the officers having moved on, Tim sat for a moment, then started to get up. And didn't get far.

_"McGee!"_ Gibbs howled. "Why is my computer displaying the 'Blooper Reel of the 2002 FBI Christmas Party, Complete with Dancing Agents?' _Get over here!!"_

Tim struggled, and then reluctantly relaxed into resignation, his back to a filing cabinet. "I would get up, but Tony super glued my pants to the floor."

_"__DiNozzo__!!"_

Tony spun and sputtered. "I—I didn't do it! Not _this_ time!"

"You don't have a tube of super glue in your desk?"

"_No_! I've been dipping into the barrels, just like everyone else, boss!"

"This doesn't feel like the usual super glue, boss," said Tim, as Gibbs tried to pull him to his feet. Tony grabbed Tim's other arm and yanked, and with a rip of fabric, up Tim came. Red-faced, Tim kept his back to the wall.

"Unknown substance," Ziva mused, trying to angle around Tim to see his ripped pants, while he kept turning to avoid her. She speeded up. So did he. She pressed her arms close to her body for maximum spin. So did he.

"The Italian judge rates those spins a 9.1," said Tony, as they dizzily came out of their twirling.

"Only a 9.1?!" Ziva complained, while Tim and his flip-flopping stomach sought relief at the nearest wastebasket.

Gibbs climbed on a desk and whistled. The tune he whistled was the _Marine's Hymn_. He'd always liked that song. "People!!" he then bellowed. "An unknown substance is on at least some surfaces, and possibly in the air here. You know the drill. Everyone report to Decontamination, and hit the showers. _Move it move it MOVE IT!"_

While they headed downstairs—Tim still trying to avoid Ziva—Gibbs called for the clean-up squad. He then called security to notify them that the squad of 14-year-old girls (the lowest contract bidders) was on their way.

- - - - -

Usually Decontamination didn't handle eight people at once (Gibbs' team plus the other team on duty). In truly large-scale emergencies, the people it couldn't immediately accommodate were given bus fare to Baltimore, and advised not to sit too close to anyone on the bus. But this outbreak wasn't that large.

There were, however, seven shower stalls, and eight people pushing to use them. Ziva was just starting her first rinse when a full-Monty Tony burst into her stall.

_"TONY! GET OUT THIS MINUTE, OR YOU WILL DIE!!"_

"Aw, have a heart, Ziva! It's a full house—"

"This is no time to be playing poker, Tony!"

"—and you don't have anything I haven't seen—"

She lunged at him. He added, hastily, "—though not in such a lovely combination—"

The force of her attack broke open the shower stall door, and they fell to the floor, she on top of him. Reaching to steady himself, Tony's hand came in contact with Ziva's hair. And stuck there.

He tried to make the best of it, while everyone else was peering out to see what was going on. "Darling, he said, "I know you have trouble with American idioms, but how could you possibly mix up the words 'hair gel' and 'super glue'?"

_Her_ hand wasn't sticky at all. She twisted his nose until he begged for mercy.

- - - - -

Once a half dozen tests pronounced them squeaky clean, and the team of high school girls were done carpet cleaning, vacuuming, dusting, and raiding the personal candy bowls upstairs, the agents spread out, looking for the cause of the mystery substance. Ziva still had a gleam in her eye, so Tim, now clad in gym shorts, announced that he would help Abby in her lab.

"Any idea what this substance is?" Tim asked the goth a little while later.

"Sure, Tim. It's super glue. Well, something quite similar, and more organic, anyway."

"But the Director threw out all our super glue! And Tony still owes me $29.95 for his share of the latest drum purchase!"

"I can't help you with the latter. But I can tell you this much: by the cleaning team's amazing Nancy Drew-like detecting abilities, I've deduced that this super glue _moved_ across the room. Under its own power!"

"You mean—"!

"Yes! We're paying those girls far too little!"

"No, I mean that the super glue is alive!!!"

It was behind them. With all its might, it thought at them, _Name not 'super glue'. Name SOO__Didn't mean to be sticky.__ Only trying to help…_

They turned, and screamed as one.

- - - - -

"Was that a scream?" Tony asked.

"If you have to ask, I'll send you back to FLETC for remedial training!" Gibbs said scathingly. "T.hat came from the lab! Let's go!"

They burst in and saw Tim and Abby shaking. "Boss? One of Abby's lab specimens is moving," said Tony, queasy at the sight of the Doberman-sized, quivering milky blob.

Gibbs sometimes couldn't believe his team. "Are you waiting for an invitation? Shoot the dn thing, all ready."

"_No_!" Tim and Abby cried together.

"It doesn't mean any harm," Abby added. "It's an empath. It follows strong emotions. It sensed how upset we were about losing our super glue, so it came to help."

"We need to get it safely out of here," said Tim. His eyes fell on an empty drum. "Would you like to see a bit of the world?" he asked the SOO. "We can arrange that…"

With a delighted squeal, the SOO flowed into the drum when Tim tipped it on its side. Gibbs and Tony applied a series of destination labels, like an elaborate inter-office memo envelope. The final destination was to NCIS Director Jennifer Shepard, Washington Navy Yard, Washington DC USA. It should arrive in Jenny's office in about six months.

- - - - -

There wasn't much left to do but write up the report. By this time, though, the sun was up, and everyone was sagging. Gibbs had to make do with instant coffee (_instant!)_, since his usual coffee shop wasn't open this early on Saturdays.

He sighed. _Dang creature. __Dang Jen. __Dang super glue.__ And where the hell is __Betro__? He said he would get me coffee, but that was Tuesday, and here it is __Saturday__…Now where did I put that cup of ins__tant?_

His eyed popped as he saw Tony drinking _his_ coffee. _His_ life-sustaining, aromatic, sludge of instant-for-the-love-of-Pete-coffee. Crossing the squad room, it took barely more that a tap to knockout his tired senior agent. _Maybe now they'll take rule #23 seriously,_ he thought. (Rule #23: Never, _ever_ get between a Marine and his coffee (if you want to live)..)

- - - - -

Some hours earlier, as the sky turned gray, Day came along and lured Night out; saying Night had won the lottery. Night flew out the door, excited, until it realized it didn't know what a lottery was. It banged on the door, but Day was already playing loud music and so ignored Night's protests and insults on its parentage.

But this is not a story about Day. It's a story about a drum of a mysterious creature called the SOO, whose next stop was to be the CIA annual golf tournament. "They have strong emotions there," Gibbs had told the SOO.

It couldn't wait!

END


End file.
